


Superluminal

by Arcturis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Angel Wings, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brother Feels, Brotherhood, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Dean Winchester Has Powers, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Dean Winchester Whump, Demon Dean Winchester, Gen, Guardian Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Guilty Dean Winchester, Guilty Pleasures, Heavy Angst, Hell, Hell Trauma, Hurt, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Protective Castiel, Sadistic Dean Winchester, Tortured Dean Winchester, Torturer Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-01 14:32:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17869037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcturis/pseuds/Arcturis
Summary: Superluminal:/sōōpər’lōōmənl/Adjective (Physics):Denoting or having a speed or force greater than that of light.A series of one-shots looking at the relationship between Dean and Castiel from the very start.





	1. Awake! Arise!

**Author's Note:**

> This particular chapter was inspired by this brilliant thread: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/13159023897488621/
> 
> and this brilliant fanart: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/13159023897490098/

Pleading screams echoed through the hazy space around him. Of course, there were always screams, countless reverberations of despair and agony. This was Hell, after all. One voice, feminine, rose above them and drew closer to Dean Winchester, the once-great hunter of evil. His face grew taut. It was difficult to tell time down in the Pit, but he figured he’d been rotting for around forty years and off the rack for ten. Even after ten years, it was difficult to get into the art of sadism, although he usually managed it after a time.

“Please! Please don’t do this, I don’t belong here!”

“I brought you a gift,” Alistair purred. Dean had always found it interesting how souls looked like their human counterparts in Hell. It was so different to the true form of demons and souls topside. If he had to place him, Alistair appeared as a black-haired Lucius Malfoy, with shorter hair. If the shoe fits, he’d thought, remembering how intensely he’d hated that particular character. He hated his mentor far more.

“What’d she do?” He asked, eyeing the soul in the form of a middle-aged, ratty woman.

“If you’re curious, rip it out of her,” the demon shrugged. “She’s your canvas, Dean.”

“You make a demon deal?” Dean barked at her, as Alistair dragged her towards the rack, securing her wrists above her head. The soul was too busy sobbing, begging for help that would never come to her aid. Dean felt irritation twitch, a sharp, nasty sensation and he grabbed a scalpel, slamming the blade through her palm. She screamed and Alistair smirked at his student in approval.

“Did you make a demon deal?” Dean reiterated, voice curt and demanding. He demeanor was calm, unhurried. It always unnerved his victims more than when he showed anger.

“I don’t - I don’t know what that means! What kind of deal? I don’t even believe in demons! I’m an atheist! Where the hell am I?” She was in hysterics, snot dripping down her nose as she sobbed. Revulsion flooded Dean’s soul. If she hadn’t made a deal, it meant she had done something deserving of his particular skill-set. The previous reluctance shifted immediately to pleasure. There was a certain eagerness that crept up. He didn’t mind doling out suffering to those who deserved it.

“Funnily enough, Hell is exactly where you are, sweetheart.” Fingers hovered over the instruments on his table, mind clinical and explorative as he unhurriedly sorted through his options. “If you didn’t make a demon deal, what did you do to end up down here?”

“I don’t know!” Her voice had shifted, less hysterical and more pleading as though, if she could convince Dean she didn’t belong, she’d be allowed to leave unscathed. “I never did anything wrong! I never stole, I never killed no one!”

“How old were you when you died?” he asked. Dragging out secrets and timelines were, in his opinion, the most important part of these sessions. It determined the tools and methods he would use to punish the souls for their mistakes and shortcomings in life.

“I’m not dead! This isn’t real, I can’t be dead! There’s nothing after death, there’s just nothing!”

Dean’s face twitched in exasperation, an exaggerated eye-roll decorating his features as he walked towards the woman and pulled the scalpel out of her hand. The blade severed tendon and bone on its way out and the woman made an odd sound halfway between a bellow and a squawk.

“Oh, you can do better than that,” Dean assured her. “Now I need you to focus. You are, actually, dead. This is, actually, Hell. I’m going to need you to accept these facts because you ain’t getting out of here. Now answer my question: how old were you when you died? You answer my questions and maybe I’ll take it easy on you today.”

He heard a noise of disapproval and waved impatiently at Alistair. He had this, he knew what he was doing. He was Alistair’s star pupil and not for nothing.

Sniveling brought his attention back to his canvas and he watched her expectantly.

“I was … I think I was forty-two but I don’t know. I lost track of time.”

An eyebrow arched at her. “Were you sick or something? Car crash? Murdered?”

A shake of the head.

“Then how’d you die?”

Her answer was barely heard above the twisted ambience of Hell, but he had it. She’d been a drug addict. Overdose. Dean frowned; drugs weren’t enough to drag a soul to Hell. So if it wasn’t substance abuse, what was it?

“Look,” he said curtly. “Reapers don’t make mistakes. Whatever you did, you’re not getting out of here, and - “

“What’s a reaper?” she asked quickly, as though convinced that, if she kept him talking, he’d delay her sentence. He snorted to himself. No way in literal Hell, but he entertained the notion. Sometimes souls had a look, a specific look, when they thought they were successfully putting him off and then they got this expression when they realized they’d been duped. It tickled something black in him, filled some darkness in his soul with immense pleasure. So he’d play along for now.

“Reapers are a type of low-class angel.” He silenced her impending astonishment with a dismissive wave of the bloodstained scalpel in his hand. “They escort souls to their next place after the meat suit dies. Now, that’s either Heaven or Hell and you’re obviously not going upstairs. So I’d really appreciate it if you just told me what you did.”

“I didn’t do nothing!” She protested, but there was a twitch in her soul that told Dean what he already knew: she was lying.

The scalpel plunged into her other hand and he felt a tendon snap apart as she screamed. “This is Hell, sweetheart,” he explained casually as he twisted the blade in a clean, cruel motion. “And I’m a demon. I know you’re lying. You’ll save a lot of trouble for both of us if you just _tell me.”_

Some shred of humanity balked at the title he had bestowed upon himself. He wasn’t a demon. Not yet, anyway. He felt something shout desperately inside his mind, urging him to fight back, to think of his brother. To rise up and rebel. But such actions came with consequences and he couldn’t get back on that rack. He just couldn’t. Thirty years of torment and agony with no reprieve had broken him and suffocating fear rose within him at the thought of being strung up again after so long.

“I … I had a kid.”

The confession severed the panicked and tormented thoughts and brought Dean back to the situation at hand. Anger replaced fear and disgust replaced thoughts of throwing in the towel.

“So what did you do to them?” He asked. His voice was calm, conversational, but the predatory air his movements gained was not lost on Alistair, who leered smugly.

She frowned in confusion. “Them? I only had the one.”

Dean groaned in acute mockery. “You’re not too bright, are you? You might have the lowest IQ of anyone I’ve ever met and, considering my previous job, that’s really saying something. What did you do to the kid?”

The soul on the rack stared at him a moment before she broke down in hysterics. “Tell God I’m sorry! Tell Him! I don’t belong here, I’d take it all back if I could!”

Taunting laughter interrupted her tirade and she stared at Dean with wide eyes.

“God’s not here,” he stated simply, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “God left a long time ago. He’s been gone for eons, not even the angels have seen Him. So don’t try praying, sweet-cheeks. He’s not going to answer. Hell knows, Heaven too, for that matter, that I’ve tried.”

He walked slowly back to the table of instruments, picking up a cruelly curved meat-hook. “Now,” he said, turning around so she could see it. “I’m going to give you one last chance to confess your sins.”

The story poured out of her immediately, face blanched and chalky with fear. She had been a terrible mother. Consumed by her need to escape the real world, she had spent most of her life cracked out. That hadn’t changed when she’d had her son. The child had been left to fend for himself in abandoned buildings while his mother had been beyond reach on a chemical high. The boy had only been five when his mother had overdosed, leaving the boy alone in a big world he didn’t understand, curled into the woman’s corpse without an understanding that his mother would never come back.

Dean’s blood had started to boil as soon as soon as she’d begun speaking. He couldn’t understand that kind of abandonment and his carefully painted composure began to peel. The hook curved into the soft flesh of her abdomen, piercing through flesh and muscle. The scream was high and monotone, just as Dean had wanted it. He tied a rope through the end and secured it to the wall. Picking up a similar hook, he copied the act, securing the woman to the walls as well as to the rack

Alistair watched his fledgling student with interest, head cocked faintly to the side. It had been a monumental fight to convince Dean Winchester to get off the rack. He’d known, of course, that it was only a matter of time. When John Winchester had escaped the Pit and been released to Heaven, theories that he was The One had dissipated in disappointment. But then his fool son had made a deal with a demon to save the life of his brother and, just for a moment, Hell rang with laughter instead of screams. Of course it had been Dean. How could they not have seen it before? Alistair had preened with the knowledge that _he_ would be the reason the Righteous Man shed blood in Hell, that _he_ would be the catalyst that started the Apocalypse. So he watched carefully, noting what brought Dean over the edge, what made him hesitate. What lines he resolutely refused to cross. Truly, this soul was an artist despite being Heaven’s chosen.

 

_________________________________________________

 

 

_“Castiel.”_

_The angel’s four wings flutter in faint surprise before folding back and settling. “Zachariah.”_

_“Castiel, the time has come. Are you ready?”_

_“Why have I been chosen, Zachariah?” Curiosity and confusion colour the angel’s aura, the multiple faces turning to regard his superior._

_“You are a phenomenal general, Castiel. God has seen fit to raise you up and give you a revered spot in the coming war. Are you not honored?”_

_“No, I … I am. Of course I am. But there are surely others more worthy.”_

_“We do not question the word of our Father, Castiel. We merely obey.”_

_Abashed, the celestial being ducks his head. “Of course. I meant no disobedience. I do not mean to question Him.”_

_“Have you chosen a vessel?”_

_A nod. “His name is Jimmy Novak. He is a good man. A righteous and devout man. I have asked for signs of his faith and he has offered such without question or hesitation. He has agreed to house my Grace.”_

_“Good,” Zachariah’s form shifts and ebbs in approval. “Just in time. We have found a broken link in the defenses of Hell. It is time. You must go immediately and you must go alone. Dean Winchester is imperative to the Lord’s plans. He must be saved.”_

_“He will be.” Determination rings powerfully in Castiel’s aura and, in the sound of wings and the burst of Grace, he is gone._

 

_________________________________________________

 

 

Pain was an art and Dean was a natural-born maestro. The souls upon the rack were his canvases, the tools upon the cart were his brushes. Blades were his chosen proficiency.

One of the first things he had learned under Alistair’s tutelage was that he could elicit whatever sound he wanted with the right method. There were some utterances that grated upon Dean’s ears, that sounded too ugly for the work he was creating. Burning sounded too rough. Cutting off limbs too harsh. Suffocation was too quiet. But carve a blade into a particular bundle of nerves, and the souls pierced Hell’s ambience with gorgeous, pure-toned cries. It was like creating a single-noted symphony, or the perfect color. There was a finesse to it that Dean had picked up on swiftly and there was a sick amount of pride he took in forcing those particular cries from this woman.

The scream fractured and bled into itself. Dean frowned, adjusting the angle and depth of the blade currently buried above the woman’s collarbone. The wavering sound purified and he smiled darkly in satisfaction.

There was no comment from Alistair. Rare was the time when he stepped in, offered advice or gave tips. They were hardly necessary these days. Where Dean took pleasure in the perfect art of pain, Alistair took pride in the souls he moulded into demons, watching that inky blackness seep into their very life-force until all that was left was sable smoke. There were taints in this man’s soul, to be sure, but even after ten years, Dean Winchester was more ivory than ebony. It would take eons to fully turn this one, but Alistair was patient. Perhaps one day, Dean would join his brother, the Boy King of Hell, at Lucifer’s side as they ruled Heaven, Hell and everything in-between. What a delicious irony that would be.

Alistair was uninterested in climbing the administrative ladder. Politics bored him. He had no interest in ruling; his passion lay with polluting souls and filling Hell’s ranks. Lucifer knew they would need as many as they could get in the coming war.

Anger bled through the screams of Hell and the lust in Dean’s eyes wavered and drowned in fear. He flinched sharply, stepping back from the rack, the blade still buried in the woman’s soul. “What’s going on,” he asked nervously, gaze attempting to pierce the smoky haze around him for answers. Receiving none, he turned to Alistair, who was frowning into the thunderous fog with hatred. The expression made Dean flinch again, setting him on edge as anxiety filled his mind. Thoughts turned haphazardly to agonizing possibilities. Was he going back on the rack? He couldn’t, not again. He’d complied, he’d honed his skills. He’d done so well, he couldn’t just be strung up again!

“Keep going,” Alistair said tightly and disappeared in a trail of inky vapor. Dean shifted uneasily before walking back to the woman and ripping the scalpel from her flesh. He dropped the instrument, dripping in scarlet, back onto the table carelessly, eyes roaming his choices. He was distracted, too worried about the disruption to Hell to truly find pleasure in this canvas. What should have been justice, pain ripped from her soul to pay penance for her sins, was turning into distraction. Something to drown himself in, to bury his fears, like he had done religiously with alcohol topside.

Suddenly tone didn’t matter. He needed to drown himself in something other than the anger permeating Hell’s ambience. He picked up a long, simple piece of metal, fingers lightly gracing the cold steel. Sparks hummed under his touch, heating the metal to a hot, yellow burn. The abilities he’d been granted once off the rack continued to surprise him. Turning wordlessly, he plunged the burning rod in through the woman’s stomach, feeling it hit her spine on the way out. Her splintered screams drowned out anything else until, quite suddenly, there was something behind him.

He dropped the instrument, whirling around to see … what the hell was that?

“Not Hell,” the being corrected. Ocean blue eyes pierced through his soul and he felt himself tremble, staring at the four sable-black wings half unfurled as though ready to take flight. While souls looked distinctly like their physical counterparts, it was glaringly obvious this creature was inhuman. His mind would have undoubtedly broken had he been alive. As it was, it was difficult to truly grasp what this being looked like. Dean got an impression of multiple faces, an impossibly named aura of flowing, white-hot blue. The only solid features he could make out was a vaguely humanoid shape, those powerful black wings faintly hinting at hues of blue and green like the Northern Lights and those impossibly blue eyes.

“You … you can’t be - “ Dean stuttered.

“I am an Angel of the Lord,” the creature explained, voice at once booming and gentle, powerful and soothing. “My name is Castiel. I have come to take you home, but we _must_ hurry.” Castiel’s impossible voice was urgent and Dean shook his head in confusion.

“I don’t … I don’t understand. Why would you come for me? I’m no one. I’m just a has-been hunter that’s already turning. I don’t deserve saving, look at me! You can’t possibly want me.”

“Dean Winchester.” Dean flinched as the angel spoke his name softly “You have so much value to the fight ahead. I have come to bring you back to your family and ready you for the coming war.”

Family.

Sam.

“Sammy?” Dean whispered, the name piercing through him, long buried to keep the shame away. To lock the guilt and the pain and hide any shred of concience.

“Yes, Dean. I can bring you to your brother, but the door is _closing_! We have so little time!”

“Dean.”

Alistair’s call made him turn around quickly, fear flooding his soul. Surely consorting with an angel would be enough transgression to replace that woman with his own soul.

“Alistair, I wasn’t - “

“Kill the angel.”

“What? Is that … is that even possible?”

A drawling smile creeped lazily onto the demon’s face. “Of course it is. Come, let me show you how to hurt an angel.” He spat out the title as though it burned his tongue and walked towards Castiel. A bright, silver blade appeared in the angel’s hand and he slipped into a battle-ready stance.

“Dean, please! We must go!”

“Oh, he’s not going anywhere with you, you filthy feathered freak. But you’ll be a wonderful lesson to teach.”

Something like peace replaced the fear as Dean’s bright emerald eyes met the angel’s azure. Not quite tranquil, but a solidifying of resolve that he had to get topside. He had to get out of here, to get back to Sammy. Anything. He would do _anything._ So when Alistair passed him, Dean crouched down to pick up the steel rod, still dripping with the blood of his most recent victim, and swung it towards his mentor.

A hand flew up to catch the metal firmly, the burning alloy leaving the demon unfazed. “Oh Dean,” Alistair crooned. “You’re a prodigy, but you’re nowhere near my level.”

The rod was wrenched out of Dean’s grasp and thrown across the room. The next thing Dean understood was agony. Spots of white-hot torment centered on his chest and spread outwards and he was screaming. His vision was black, body too preoccupied with the resurgence of torture to focus on anything besides the tactile trauma being inflicted upon his soul.

Just as suddenly, it was gone and he was gasping. Alistair stood above him, seething with hatred, hands clapped around a stomach wound leaking sparks and tendrils of black smoke. Castiel stood above Dean, the shining blade held out in defense of his miserable soul.

“You will not touch him.”

And then light exploded, piercing the hazy aura of burnt red surrounding Hell and Alistair was a suffocating wave of blackness. Dean watched in terrified awe as Light and Dark struck out at each other, twining and flowing and twisting in a dangerous, deadly dance.

He blinked and he was being pulled up, Alistair reforming in front of him and stalking towards him and the angel gripping his soul close. “Trust me,” the angelic voice murmured softly in his ear, and his arm wrapped around his chest. Dean cried out in agony at the burning touch, feeling _something_ scorching at the jet tendrils wound tight like barbed wire about his soul. He fought against the hold as he screamed, but Castiel held him tighter.

It wasn’t just the pain. It wasn’t just the torment of cleansing. Something deep within him shied away from the knowledge an Angel of God could see the taint within his blood, could see what he had become and was still becoming. His soul was bound to Hell, his sentence as demon already carved in stone. Surely he did not deserve to be saved.

The journey felt like years. For uncountable ages, Dean was unaware of anything past the angel’s tormenting touch, the screams of demons as Castiel defended his charge to escape the Pit, and the sound of wings keeping him close, keeping him safe from the Horde. Tears streamed down his face and he knew he should be silent, to keep from giving them away, but the Grace attacked the evil bound tightly to his life-force.

There was no transfiguration between realms. One moment they were battling their way out of Hell and, in the blink of an eye, they were flying in the clear blue skies of Earth. The sudden shift was jarring and it took Dean hours to adjust to the brightness of his world, to allow the texture of anything besides smoke and blood and torn flesh to grace his tattered, broken soul. It was agony in and of itself, to be blessed with such relief and he sobbed. Castiel held him more gently as they floated to the ground and Dean collapsed to his knees in the grass - actual grass! - while Castiel followed him, allowing him time to process and come to terms.

“Sammy!” he gasped.

“He is waiting for you,” Castiel said. “You must save him.”

“Save him?” Dean demanded hoarsely.

“Your brother has fallen to darkness. If he does not change the path he is following … “

The danger trailed into the air and, if Dean had been corporeal, he would have felt the blood drain from his face.

“I’ll watch out for him. I always have, that’s not changing. Ever.”

“You will remember none of this when your soul is once again joined to your earthly body. Time is of the essence, Dean Winchester. There is a war coming. You and your brother play vital parts in the salvation of this world. Now go. I will come to you when it is time.”

Dean blinked and the angel was gone. Was he not looking at his body, restored to vitality by the angel’s Grace, he wouldn’t believe he’d gotten out. But he was so desperate, so frantic with need, that he reached out, his hand placed upon his own solid chest and something snapped.

 

_____________________________________________________

 

 

Red haze.

 

Blood.

 

Flashes of harsh light.

 

Screams.

 

Agony.

 

_Awake. Arise._

 

A command.

 

Dean’s eyes fly open.


	2. Survivor's Guilt

Dean sat nervously, hands fidgeting with the demon blade in his hands. His eyes studied the countless layers of traps, talismans and sigils spray painted in black and white covering the walls of this rundown building. Bobby truly was a genius; Dean didn’t recognize even a fraction of these. Hopefully something would be able to trap whatever this was.

Castiel.

The name rang a bell in the far depths of his mind, just familiar enough to be uncomfortable. Whatever this was, it was vicious. Guilt tore at his soul for Pamela’s violent blindness. That was on him, another sin to drag him back down to Hell in due time. Lightning-quick images of blood and bone, imprints of pain flew through his mind, faster than thought, but it made Dean flinch anyways. Everything was so hazy and he wondered if he’d ever truly remember his time from Hell. God, he hoped not. Heaven knew he had enough tearing at his grapefruit without remembering four months in the Pit.

“Boy, stop playing with that knife. You’re makin’ me nervous.”

Bobby’s voice made him jump and he sent an apologetic glance towards the older man. He stopped toying with the blade, instead sending the tip into the wood of the table he was on, whittling aimlessly. Nerves were masquerading as boredom and he was getting agitated. He sighed.

“You sure he did the ritual right?” Bobby’s offended glare was enough of an answer and Dean waved the question away. “Sorry,” he sighed again. “Touchy, touchy, huh?” He knew he was being petulant, but it had been over twenty minutes since they’d finished the ritual and just … waited. Most rituals took less than a minute to summon whatever creature they were calling. Maybe whatever it was just couldn’t be summoned? He mentally berated himself. If that was true, Pamela would still have her eyes.

Mere seconds later, as if his thoughts had brought the thing itself, the rafters began banging overhead, making the two men jump to their feet. Dean could feel Bobby’s caution and it made his nerves sing and his heart beat at a faster tempo. Winchesters didn’t scare easy, but this thing wasn’t making it easy for him to stay centered.

“Wishful thinking,” he called above the deafening noise. “But maybe it’s just the wind.”

The lights burst overhead, raining showers of sparks upon their heads. _The universe just loves proving me wrong,_ he thought tensely, looking around for signs of whatever power they had summoned. He whirled around as the doors burst open despite the heavy oak panel locking the them closed and something humanoid walked unhurriedly inside. Dean and Bobby raised their shotguns, barrels staring the thing down as it strode forward, wrapped in an aura of infuriating calm.

The casual stroll and the fact that it was walking through every single trap and sigil they’d marked upon every feasible surface made Dean’s brain scream. _Run!_ his instincts shouted. _Run!_

But he had to know.

The thing’s features were illuminated in swift flashes of falling sparks. Male. Dark-haired. Human-formed. Tan trench-coat. A hard stare as he strode forward without so much as a flinch. Dean fired off a round of salt, the buckshot exploding on his target’s chest. It did nothing. Neither did Bobby’s rounds. Once, twice more, and still it walked forwards in a steady rhythm towards the two hunters. Dean swallowed his fear, grabbing the demon knife and hiding it behind his back as the being came to stand in front of him.

“Who are you?” He hated the way his voice wavered.

“I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.” The tone was light, matter-of-fact.

“Yeah. Thanks for that.”

The thing nodded slightly, as though acknowledging an actual token of sincerity and Dean was caught off guard before he gathered himself and plunged the demon blade into its chest. Its face grew a slight smile as though faintly amused and removed the blade without blinking an eye. Dean stared in astonishment, unable to think of what he should do next as the dropped blade clanged loudly to the concrete floor. Bobby came to his rescue, swinging at it with a crowbar but, without breaking the firm gaze he held with Dean, a hand came up to grab the heavy instrument. Dean and Bobby exchanged panicked glances before it swung around slowly to face the older man.

Ancient whispers wove themselves through Dean’s mind, words he couldn’t possibly understand and, before he could gather himself, two fingers were pressed gently to Bobby’s forehead. The man’s eyes rolled up into his skull and he fell slowly to the ground. The being looked at the unconscious man, head cocked in interest.

Dean looked between him and Bobby in horror, but formulating plans were interrupted. “We need to talk, Dean.” The voice was quiet, but firm. “Alone.” Dean didn’t answer, only fell to Bobby’s side, looking for any sign of life. “You’re friend’s alive,” came the voice behind him and he looked to see it leafing curiously through a book of sigils.

“Who are you?” Dean demanded.

“Castiel,” came the reply, without looking up.

“Yeah, I figured that much,” Dean said tightly, fury etched into his features. “I mean _what_ are you?”

That query caught Castiel’s attention and he looked towards Dean. “I’m an Angel of the Lord.”

Dean’s breath caught before his fury returned and he rose slowly to his feet. “Get the hell out of here.” The quiet of his words did nothing to mask his anger. “There’s no such thing.” Castiel took a few steps to face him, curiosity replaced by … was that chastisement? Dean frowned.

“This is your problem, Dean,” Castiel said, as though gently rebuking a small child. “You have no faith.”

Thunder echoed and lightning lit up the building, making Dean flinch, but when he looked back at the being before him, he saw the shadows of immense wings lit up against the back wall, unfurled and massive, spreading above Castiel. He watched numbly until the shadows dissipated, stunned into silence. He caught Castiel’s gaze and felt such intense déja vu he nearly keeled over.

_Crystalline, perfectly blue eyes framed by such intense white light._

The thought was gone as soon as it entered and he shook himself, trying to focus on the present. “Some angel you are,” he tried. “You burned out that poor woman’s eyes.” Thoughts of Pamela made him angry and anger helped him focus. Castiel bowed his head and, if Dean didn’t know better, he might have thought there was deep remorse printed in the downturn of those lips, the shadows darkening the blue of his eyes.

“I warned her not to spy on my true form. It can be … overwhelming to humans. So can my real voice, but you already knew that.”

Realization dawned. “You mean the gas station and the motel. That was you talking?” Castiel nodded and Dean realized that there truly was remorse in those eyes, as well as an unnamable emotion that seemed to disorient him every time his green met those blue. He looked down for a moment. “Buddy, next time lower the volume,” he quipped.

“That was my mistake,” Castiel apologized. “Certain people, special people, can perceive my true visage. I thought you would be one of them. I was wrong.”

The comment startled Dean. Why would he, a nameless no-one, be thought to have some special powers to understand angel-speech? But anger sparked again, masking the fear and confusion and helping him to refocus.

“And what ‘visage’ are you in now, huh?” he asked scathingly. “What, holy tax accountant?” If Sam had been here, and Dean thanked whatever higher power that he wasn’t, he would be staring at Dean in horror, hazel eyes demanding to know why he thought insulting an actual Angel of the Lord, an infinitely powerful celestial being, was a good idea.

“This? This is a vessel,” Castiel explained, hands running over the bullet-torn trench coat.

“You’re possessing some poor bastard?” Dean realized in disgust. He should have seen it before.

The slight smile was back on the angel’s face. “He’s a devout man, he actually prayed for this,” he tried to explain. Dean didn’t care.

“Look pal, I’m not buying what you’re selling. So who are you, really?”

The smile dropped from Castiel’s face in exchange for a frown of confusion. “I told you.”

“Right,” said Dean. This whole situation was beyond him. “And why would an angel rescue me from Hell?” he demanded.

“Good things do happen, Dean.” Castiel said carefully. He was frowning, taking a step forward.

There was no hiding the fear on Dean’s face anymore, but he kept going. “Not in my experience,” he ground out tensely.

Castiel’s perplexed look grew deeper. “What’s the matter?” he asked, seeming genuinely concerned. His too-familiar eyes delved into Dean’s emerald and he found he couldn’t look away. His mind screamed and every nerve was alight with adrenaline.

Realization dawned and Castiel’s eyes widened in … what was that? Sorrow? “You don’t think you deserve to be saved,” he said slowly.

That was digging too far into Dean’s insecurities for his comfort and his anxiety and agitation grew stronger. “Why’d you do it?” he bit out.

“Because God commanded it,” the angel said firmly. “Because we have work for you.”

Maybe that would have made Sam feel better, but it terrified Dean. Before his mind could make actual words, Bobby stirred and groaned on the floor and his eyes dropped to look at the man out of instinct. There was a sound like the beat of wings and, when Dean looked up, Castiel was gone.

 

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_Castiel watches his new charge carefully in the following hours. He studies the human man with interest and a small amount of concern as he argues with his brother about the plausible existence of celestial powers. It confuses the angel, the way the boy with the demon blood argues for Castiel’s existence and righteousness while Michael’s Sword protests the idea so fervently. Despite the virtuous reason Dean had ended up in Hell, Castiel is well aware of how broken this man is. He has watched over this family since the Cherub responsible for their joining had united Mary Campbell and John Winchester. Dean’s mother hadn’t been wrong when she’d told him angels were watching out for him._

_In a way, this assignment is more difficult than any he’s ever undertaken. He’s fought wars, fulfilled his Father’s commands, turned the tides of events that have shaped the universe. Castiel remembers the plagues of Egypt in the time of Moses. He remembers the loss of Atlantis as the Hordes of Hell swallowed it into the sea. He remembers orchestrating the smiting of the ancient city of Sodom. Castiel has led armies for eons, but Dean Winchester is a challenge he has never faced before._

_The emotions of humans make an additional challenge. As an angel, he is programmed to obey his superiors without question. He has been taught to lead lesser soldiers. There is never room for error. Angels are not cursed with emotion as humans are. There is never second thoughts, guilt to create stray threads and wrong decisions that could lose the battle. If an angel expresses such, they are re-educated and the problem is corrected. Castiel himself has been re-educated, likely more times than he can remember and the knowledge brings shame, but also determination to do better. In the end, it has paid off. Dean Winchester, the one who will deliver the world from Lucifer’s threat, has been placed into his charge. God has seen fit to bless him and the knowledge makes the angel shiver slightly, the dark feathers of his four wings preening gently before he relaxes and continues to think._

_Without a superior to re-educate the humans, how do they ever know what to do? He has always wondered this. There are prophets, holy men to lead the way, to preach his Father’s words and guide humanity towards a better path. The rare appearance of angels to correct the larger errors of men. But Dean has never been inclined to this path, does not even believe in the Lord. So, beyond the morality and conscience that God instilled into the humans, how do they know which paths to take? The idea is fascinating and the blue that pierces the angels multi-faceted faces studies the features of Dean Winchester with increased curiosity._

_He is tall, lean and muscular. By human standards, he is likely considered to be lovely. His resurrection has erased all mars from his tanned skin save the handprint burned into his shoulder by Castiel’s Grace. He moves with all the nimble agility of a skilled warrior, actions always weighed and measured, though he may not be consciously aware of this fact. His actions are silent, fluid. Even now, arguing with his brother with all the explosive thrashing of human emotion, there is evidence of a born soldier. This is to be expected, of course. Dean has been trained to hunt and fight evil since he was a small child. He has grown into this lifestyle, but it is his face that intrigues Castiel most of all, a face which holds so much emotion that the angel cannot comprehend. There is always tautness to his jaw, evidence of stress and unhappiness. Occasionally a tick to show his teeth grinding in anger or frustration. There are small lines by his eyes that pay homage to his laughter and smiles. For some reason Castiel cannot fathom, it pleases him that this man still feels joy despite the hardships of his young life._

_Yet, despite that joy, despite the joy of two men who love him dearly, he does not believe himself to be worth saving. Perhaps this is a fallacy of emotion. A man who has saved so many people, who has done so much good in the world and eradicated so much nightmarish evil. He has his flaws, of course. Humans were made with the ability to make choices and this makes them imperfect. Even with all those flaws, Castiel muses, he is a great man. A noble man. So how can he not see his worth? How can the knowledge of his salvation cause him so much pain and guilt?_

_“Castiel.”_

_Zachariah’s voice makes him turn away from his charge._

_“You are needed elsewhere. Lilith is marching to sacrifice the Reapers. You must take your battalion to stop her.”_

_“What of Dean Winchester?”_

_“He has his own Seal to deal with. We could not stop the Rising of the Witnesses. It is already in motion. It is up to the Winchesters to end this slaughter.”_

_Castiel nods slightly. “As Father wishes. Lilith will not break the Reapers’ Seal.”_

_“Go swiftly, Castiel. We must not lose this battle.”_

 

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“Dean?”

Sam walked over and Dean jumped, looking up from his position on the floor. He’d been leaning against Bobby’s couch, trying to figure out why the angel’s eyes unnerved him so badly. “Bobby in bed?”

Sam groaned slightly from the previous battle’s bruises, sitting down next to his brother. “Yeah, he turned in a while ago. Says he’s getting too old for this crap.” Dean’s lips twitched up for a fraction of a moment, but fell just as quickly. Sam watched him carefully, hazel eyes taking in the sight of his older brother hungrily. The sound of Hell Hounds and Dean’s screams as those claws tore into his flesh rushed through Sam’s ears and he flinched slightly, but it was enough for Dean to notice.

“I’m not going anywhere, Sammy,” he murmurs gently, patting Sam’s knee in reassurance. “Evidently ‘God has work for me to do’.” His voice was half-hearted, scathing, mimicking the low rumble of Castiel’s voice. Sam still kept his eyes trained on his brother.

“I know why you’re struggling so much with this,” he said softly.

“Sam, don’t,” Dean warned, but Sam kept going.

“Why can’t you just let good things happen for once, man? I’m here. You’re here. No strings attached! How often can we say that’s happened to us?”

“Never,” Dean admitted reluctantly.

“Exactly! Look, Dean. Even if you don’t believe Castiel’s an angel, just … just take this as it is! This is a gift. A miracle!” Sam’s hand was wrapped around Dean’s upper arm now, voice and body language pleading with his older brother fervently, willing him not to look this gift horse in the mouth. “He’s not threatening our souls. So if he wants us to run a few holy errands in return, so what? I can work with that!”

“It shouldn’t have been me, that’s why.” Dean tried to insert some anger in there, but he knew he failed miserably, based on what he could see of Sam’s shocked expression out of the corner of his eye. He took another drink from the whiskey bottle in his hand.

“Wh … “ Sam trailed off, struggling to find something to say. “Why the hell not?”

“Sam, those Witnesses were chosen specifically for us. People we couldn’t save.”

“We can’t save everyone.” Sam’s voice was low, weighed with the guilt of knowledge. “I know what it’s like, that need to save as many people as possible. That need to balance the scales.” Dean frowned before remembering the conversation he’d once had with his drunken brother.

_No, Dean! You don’t understand! The more people I save, the more I can change!_

“Doesn’t change a damn thing, Sammy,” Dean said. “There are plenty of other guys more worthy, who’d do a better job than I ever could.”

“Apparently that’s not what God thinks,” Sam pointed out. Dean just scoffed and waved the comment away.

“Don’t give me that crap,” he bit out angrily. “No way in Hell there’s a God that just suddenly decides to give a damn about our family.”

“Evidently, there _is_ a way in Hell,” Sam quipped, lips quivering as he tried to keep a straight face.

Dean looked at him, shaking his head in astonishment. “You are unbelievable, you know that? Here we are having a serious conversation and you’re throwing out friggin’ Hell puns.”

That broke Sam’s resolve and a wide grin split his face, shoulders quivering with the laughter he tried to keep silent. “You left yourself wide open!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean grumbled, but his heart felt a little lighter. Despite his fervent belief otherwise, it helped lighten the weight to know that others felt he deserved the salvation he’d been given. Even if the most important opinion came from his little brother. Screw the angel; if Sammy believed in him, that was all he needed to keep going.


End file.
